Sandwich
by Mersang
Summary: My friend cowrote this. It's a comic piece in the same style as 'Disclaimer'. Trust me, it's funny.


Another funny story, sort of like 'Disclaimer', except it was my friend's idea. 

Disclaimer: See story 'Disclaimer'. It's hilarious.

**My Friend's Cinnamon Sandwich**

My friend Psychic had a sandwich made from cinnamon bread. I should have realized it would cause trouble.

We were eating outside when Ax jumped out from behind a bush, dressed as a 17th century English highwayman. Trust me, an Andalite wearing a tri-corner hat is THE freakiest thing ever.

( Your sandwich or your life! ) he shouted.

"Which of us? We've both got sandwiches," I pointed out. Psychic ignored him.

( The cinnamon sandwich or your life! )

"Heck, no, this is _my_ sandwich," Psychic snapped. "If you're hungry, make your own."

( But that one's on _cinnamon bread_. ) Okay, I take it back. An Andalite wearing a tri-corner hat isn't the freakiest thing ever. An Andalite trying to give someone the puppy-dog eyes is the freakiest thing ever. ( I'll do anything you want! Just _please_, for the _love_ of _all_ that is _good_, I am _begging_ you to give me the sandwich! )

Psychic smirked. "I want you to _not_ want this sandwich."

( THAT'S NOT FAIR! )

"And somehow, I couldn't care less." She turned to me. "You know what would be funny? If Visser Three _also_ showed up and _also_ started begging me for my sandwich."

A Bug fighter crashed right in front of us. ( YOU INCOMPETENT BUFFOON! HOW HARD CAN IT POSSIBLY BE TO TEST-FLY A BUG FIGHTER? ) Visser Three stormed out in a towering temper—or, since it's _him_ we're talking about, a friendly, amiable, happy-go-lucky mood.

I rolled my eyes. "Psychic, you're a fortune teller sometimes."

She rolled her eyes right back. "No, duh. You've known me three years, and you're just learning that now?"

The Visser looked at me. He looked at Psychic. He looked at her sandwich.

He continued to look at her sandwich.

He was still looking at her sandwich…

What was so fascinating about that sandwich, anyway?

"ARRGH! WHAT AM I, CHOPPED LIVER? I'M STILL HERE!" I can't go more than five seconds without someone paying attention to me.

I could not believe that both aliens (or all three aliens, if you count Alloran) ignored me and continued to stare at the sandwich.

"Wow," I commented to Psychic. "I knew Andalites were into cinnamon buns, but wouldn't you say that this is a little intense?" Psychic gave me a Look. It said "Shut up."

( DO NOT INSULT ME BY CALLING ME AN ANDALITE! )

Finally! The Vissertore a stalk-eye away from the sandwich to glare at me. Actually, from his expression, maybe that wasn't such a good thing… Ah, who cares? I had the spotlight back.

No, wait. I didn't. They were staring at the sandwich again.

Psychic's good at ignoring weird behavior. She has to be—she's my best friend. She was calmly eating her sandwich, seemingly oblivious to the aliens practically drooling over it.

Ax fell to his knees. ( Stop! I beg of you! Don't take another bite! Please, just give me the sandwich! )

Psychic frowned. There was only a bite left. "What, this? Why don't you just come over to my house? Mom's baked a whole loaf, and she never minds if I bring friends home."

( I AM YOUR WILLING SLAVE! ) I'm not sure whether Ax or the Visser yelled that—I think it was both. I left.

I met up with Psychic about three hours later. For once, she looked rather shaken.

"They fought a dual for a loaf of cinnamon bread," she told me. "Ax lost, so then Mom had to give him the recipe. Then she had to teach him how to cook." My best friend shuddered. "There was flour everywhere. EVERYWHERE! How'd it get in the light socket, anyway? Then the oven blew up… I am never going to eat cinnamon bread again."

I finally blew up. "WHY DIDN'T I GET A PIECE? I THOUGHT WE WERE FRIENDS!"

Psychic gave me another Look. This one said: "You are the weirdest person that I have ever met."

So I gave her my patented "Oh, really?" Look.

She gave me her patented "Yes, _really._" Look.

We both rolled our eyes.


End file.
